d o w n w a r d s p i r a l
by miseria
Summary: Duo with a razorblade. Contains self-harm/violence. *Complete*
1. i n t r o d u c t i o n

  
  
  
  


Just a warning for anyone who self-harms: this contains major triggers, ie graphic descriptions of cutting in the prologue, and chapters three and seven, so please take care. 

  
  
  
  
  



	2. p r o l o g u e

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
  
  
  
  
Prologue.  
  
  
  
  
  
Small droplets of blood bead on the pale, finely scared surface of my skin, before winding their way through the light hairs which cover my arms, to drip, drip onto the waiting tissue beneath.  
  
I'm rather pleased with myself for remembering the tissue this time: I hate trying to get blood off the floor, especially when we're at one of Quatre's houses - makes me twice as paranoid.  
  
Mahogany flooring, cream tiles, and matching towels.  
  
Running over the same cut with the razor blade - making it deeper. You can almost see the two sides of the cut parting: shying away from the cold metal.  
  
Moses parting the Red Sea. Exodus: 14.  
  
You wouldn't believe how sharp a razor blade is. Honestly - you just have to touch your skin and the blood starts to seep, then flow.  
  
It doesn't hurt, you know: it just looks so pretty.  
  
Scarlet.  
  
Not: "The blood is an outward manifestation of my inward pain." or any of that psychobabble bullshit.  
  
It just looks so pretty.  
  
And when I cut, I can forget about the war, and the death, and the hysterical edge my laughter seems to have recently..... and it doesn't really matter to me anymore, and its not really me anyway. I'm not even worrying if anyone is going to find out, 'cause that's somewhere else - you know?  
  
And him? The guy with the razor blade?  
  
Well, that's Shinigami - he's real good with a knife. And usually, I can tell us apart, but sometimes, in my darker moments - the boundaries blur, and I can't tell the difference anymore.  
  
Maybe someday there won't be any difference....  
  
I put my blades away, clean myself up, pull down my sleeves, and flash my reflection a grin and a wink before I walk out of the bathroom.  
  
Still Duo. 


	3. c h a p t e r o n e

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter One  
  
  
  
  
  
Mission Status: Complete  
  
Casualties: None  
  
Injuries: 04 - minor cuts/brusing  
  
Enemy Casualties: Sixty-three (63)  
  
Blah, blah, blah.  
  
Boring, boring, boring.  
  
I'm reading a mission report over Heero's shoulder. He's in the process of coding it before sending it off: it's just a load of technical jargon that drags on for pages and pages, which basically translates into this: we have to lie low for a couple of days.  
  
Five of the worlds most feared terrorists cooped up in the same house together for two days.  
  
I can think of better ideas.  
  
I mean, sharing a dorm room with Heero is enough to send anyone doo-lally, let alone being stuck with all four of the fucking psychos.  
  
Heero.  
  
I'm surprised that I'm still standing, as I'm currently so close to him that we're basically sharing oxygen - he's usually tried to kill me by now.  
  
No, wait: spoke too soon.  
  
The air rushes past me as I'm pushed against a wall: my breath forced from my lungs.  
  
You have to admire that kind of speed.  
  
He punches me in the stomach - I hear it rather than feel it, at first - that sick, wet sound of flesh hitting flesh. The kind of sound you wouldn't mind forgetting.  
  
And then I'm doubled over, coughing my guts up.  
  
Heero sits back down and continues to type.  
  
You know, for an emotionless bastard: he has one hellava temper. 


	4. c h a p t e r t w o

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
  
  
Chapter Two.  
  
  
  
I retreat to the relative calm of the kitchen, where Quatre and Wufei are discussing supplies. You know that lying low thing? - Well, it also means that we are not to leave the house for food, spare parts, etc.  
  
Or to go clubbing, as Wufei was quick to remind me. Although, I think the exact word he used was "cavorting". I-kid-you-not: the guy actually said "cavorting".  
  
I move to familiarise myself with the layout of the kitchen, the only room I have yet to investigate - knives in the second draw down, to the left.  
  
Soldier's habits.  
  
I'm out of direct line of sight when I hear Trowa's light footsteps approaching - that guy must walk on air, he's so quiet.  
  
I don't know Trowa well enough to do this, and looking back - it probably wasn't the most intelligent idea I've had....  
  
Hindsight's a wonderful thing.  
  
Whatever, I felt like some physical contact that didn't include Heero beating the shit out of me. Anyway, according to everyone else I'm rash and unthinking.  
  
Got a reputation to live up to.  
  
"Hey Trowa!", I crow suddenly, as I sling an arm around the ex-mercenary's neck.  
  
He reacts badly. 


	5. c h a p t e r t h r e e

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Three.  
  
  
  
  
  
Man - that's gotta hurt.  
  
I'm in my en-suite - the highlight of staying at one of Quatres' safehouses: some semblance of privacy - staring at my appearance.  
  
And it does. Hurt, that is.  
  
Getting hit twice in an hour is... well, put it this way: if I was on a mission it'd be wicked - really impressive - ninmu kanryou - type thing. However, being in a house full of my (supposed) friends kinda puts a different spin on things.  
  
My hand reaches out for my blades.  
  
An automatic reaction really. Like when you instantly drop something that's too hot; or pull a gun on someone if they sneak up on you; or - in Trowa's case - throw a mean right hook at them. The guy didn't mean it though, he even apologised (it speaks!), it's just a natural reaction.  
  
Well, it's a natural reaction if you're a trained killer, anyway.  
  
How ugly are bruises? Sprawling black, purple, blue, green, yellow...  
  
Yuk.  
  
But cuts... exquisite.  
  
I say the word out loud as I sink the blade: deep into the pale of my forearm:  
  
"Exquisite."  
  
I like the word: the way it tastes in my mouth.  
  
Sharp.  
  
I cut, and the world is reduced to the moment - reduced to the now: the edge of the razor blade moving smoothly over skin... so I don't notice when I can no longer hear the others clearly, chatting in the kitchen; or when the steady dripping of the cold tap becomes muffled.  
  
Everything sounds so far way.  
  
The blood is flowing freely: frequently spotting Quatres' nice mahogany floorboards.  
  
Far, far away.  
  
A tinge of panic as my vision fades.  
  
Then calm.  
  
The floor rushes up to meet me.  
  
And before the darkness becomes complete, I wonder how deep a cut has to be to constitute as 'too deep'?  
  
  
  
***************************************************  
  
Come on guys: write a review - You know you want to.....  
  
PS - This is not the end, OK? 


	6. c h a p t e r f o u r

Author's note: Thanks Skip - I'd forgotten about the timeline.... Erm, set sometime before the end of the war and Endless Waltz etc. (I couldn't be more vague if I tried.)  
  
  
  
  
  
d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Four.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
Idiotic.  
  
Disgusting.  
  
Inexcusable.  
  
I fainted.  
  
I FUCKING fainted!  
  
02 - the big, bad Gundam pilot: God of Death himself - can't deal with his problems and faints at a little blood loss.  
  
Pathetic.  
  
I feel my face twist into an ugly sneer at my behaviour: a far cry from my usual, cheerful grin.  
  
Fists clenched tightly: I want to throw something - to hurt somebody.  
  
Which is exactly why I'm sitting on the dark, freezing cold roof, hugging my knees.  
  
I really don't want to embarrass myself in front of the others; and anyway, I think that I've received (caused) enough damage for one day.  
  
Footsteps startle me out of my thoughts: purposeful and sure, despite the dusting of glittering frost.  
  
Heero - No-one else could get so close without me knowing about it.  
  
I place my left hand over my fresh cuts, reassuring myself for the thousandth time that my sleeves hide the self-inflicted damage.  
  
I feel nauseous at the mere idea of anyone knowing.  
  
"What are you doing, Duo?"  
  
A pause.  
  
"Counting the stars."  
  
The heat of his gaze on the back of my neck.  
  
I wonder what he's thinking.  
  
What am I saying? Who cares what the bastard thinks of me.  
  
Seconds stretch into minutes, before he turns and gracefully stalks back the way he came.  
  
  
  
*****************************************  
  
By the way, in case you're wondering - I'm not planning to make anything of these 1x2/2x1 hints - they just suit my purposes in this story.  
  
Reviews please - and its great to see so many accomplished writers reviewing my work - thank you. 


	7. c h a p t e r f i v e

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
  
  
  
  
Chapter Five.  
  
  
  
  
  
  
  
I awake to bright sunlight streaming through my bedroom window, and the sound of Quatre's high, light laughter echoing up from downstairs.  
  
How depressing.  
  
Well - It couldn't get much worse.  
  
A firm knock on my door, which is closely followed by Heero's voice:  
  
"Duo?"  
  
I really shouldn't tempt fate like that.  
  
Now, I could get up and answer that... or I could just turn over and burrow back beneath the covers, in the (vain) hope that he'll go away.  
  
I choose the latter option.  
  
"I know you're awake."  
  
Hey, wow - physic too.  
  
If I don't get up now, Heero will get pissed off and break the door down; which will upset Quatre (even though he would never actually say anything); and then I'll get disapproving looks from Trowa and Wufei for being childish, lazy etc...  
  
But I just can't bring myself to care.  
  
How predictable is Heero? This predictable:  
  
A solid crash shatters any hope I entertained of Heero leaving me in peace, as the door is knocked cleanly off it's hinges. I know I'm in trouble when he pulls off my quilt and gives me his death-glare - I silently thank any deity that's listening for the fact that I wear long sleeves in bed.  
  
Hey guess what? Mr Predictable looks really mad, so I do the only thing I really can do in the face of such danger:  
  
I grin.  
  
"Morning He-chan!"  
  
Unfortunately, my voice doesn't quite convey the chirpy, upbeat, and general annoyingness that I was aiming for. In actual fact, it sounds a little like I've been punched a couple of times; lost about a pint of blood; fainted; sulked in the freezing cold for half the night; and got a grand total of two hours sleep.  
  
No, wait - that really happened.  
  
I'm rewarded with a pause from The Stoic One - which is quite a reaction, coming from him.  
  
"It has been decided by the group that unless you show signs of the responsibility and maturity necessary for a good soldier, you will be considered a liability: and treated as such."  
  
I think he saves his words up for occasions like this.  
  
I continue to grin.  
  
"Hey man! Lighten up - I was planning to check over my systems today - 'Kay?"  
  
Heero looks at me, his expression doesn't change (does it ever?), but for once, I know what he's thinking: that I'm severely lacking in the expertise needed to handle Deathsythes' systems.  
  
"Hn."  
  
And with that intelligent and eloquent remark, he's gone.  
  
Great, so everyone thinks that I'm a liability now.  
  
Ah, fuck it. Who cares what they think of me, anyway.  
  
My hands shake as I dress.  
  
  
  
  
  
********************************  
  
I'm in Paris for the next couple of days, so I'll put the next part up on Wednesday 13th.  
  
Reviews please. Thanks. 


	8. c h a p t e r s i x

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
Chapter Six.  
  
"You know," I begin, ignoring the look of mild panic that passes over Wufei's face.  
  
I'm running a full systems check on Deathsythe, while Wufei does something or other on his precious Nataku.  
  
He probably thought that he'd be able to tend to his beloved Gundam in peace and quiet.  
  
Fat chance.  
  
"You know, before X-1s and X-2s there were microdisks, and before that there were minidisks, and before that there were C.Ds, and before that there were... erm, O.K - I don't actually know what music technology was like before C.Ds, but its always updated really fast, and I'm not just talking about audio and entertainment systems: technology as a whole seems to progress at a phenomenal rate right up to the beginning of the war. Then everything but war technology ceases to move forward in any way - it's like the whole of human civilisation bases it's infrastructure on a war economy: and what I want to know is, do all those ordinary designers and scientists who made entertainment equipment, or those really wicked trainers with the inbuilt tracking devices that broke all those privacy laws a while back, did they suddenly switch to Beam Cannon design, I mean..."  
  
"Duo"  
  
"Yeah?"  
  
"Kindly stop your tirade: some of us have important work to do."  
  
I stick my tongue out at his back, and carry on with my systems check - some of us are capable of doing two things at once, Wufei.  
  
But I really do want to know.  
  
I mean, if the Telecommuni repairman suddenly turned to making parts for S.T-1 Lasers, then what did the nuclear scientists do? Did they try to graft Gundanium onto a young boy's skeleton? Did they use groundbreaking experiments to prepare the mind for sitting at the controls of the most destructive machines know to man? And what will happen when the war is finally over.  
  
(I have to believe that day will come.)  
  
Maybe the Telecommuni repairman can forget how to put together the trigger mechanism for an AK-58 Rifle, but what about us?  
  
What about us.  
  
***************************************************  
  
Right, just a few things:  
  
For those of you who care: Paris was wicked, and the trip gave me the chance to confirm something: my French really does suck (oh, well - est-ce qu'il y a quelqu'un ici parle anglais?)  
  
Yes, I will be writing another Gundam fic after this one (NOT a sequel), and I'll be trying to extend the length of my work - but don't expect any thousand-word miracles.  
  
Nope, I didn't even know that there was an album called "Downward Spiral" - this is entirely out of my own (twisted) mind.  
  
In Ch 5 it was supposed to read "psychic", not "physic" (I'm sure that you all worked that one out by yourselves) - don't you just love automatic spell checks?  
  
The next chapter will be up no later than Saturday 16th.  
  
Last, but not least, reviews are very much appreciated (and craved).  
  
Much thanks,  
  
Miseria. 


	9. c h a p t e r s e v e n

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
Chapter Seven.  
  
Trowa and Quatre are sparring in the ballroom (yes - we have a ballroom); Heero is tapping away on his computer... Where's Wufei? I rise from my place on the couch and systematically search the house until I find him staring out of a window in (one of the) dining rooms.  
  
"What is it now, Maxwell?"  
  
I beat a hasty retreat, returning to the living room and taking up a cross-legged position on the couch (- feet on the cushions: just 'cause there's no-one here to tell me not to). Only now am I able to relax, knowing where everyone is in the house.  
  
I finally settle down to read - something that Father Maxwell taught me to do when I was seven or eight.  
  
Duo Maxwell: always was a slow learner.  
  
A rare moment of calm in the chaos.  
  
( the moans of the dying - - blood dripping from an open wound )  
  
These flashes of ( Shinigami's ) memory don't bother me much, I can ignore them... ignore the need:  
  
The beckoning blades.  
  
I remember reading once that self-mutilation was a real illness.  
  
Nobody worry - I'm just a little sick:  
  
In the head.  
  
It's more like an addiction, actually. Man, you should see me when I can't get my hands on a sharp implement (or find the privacy needed to use it), I mean we're talking quickened breathing, uncontrollable shaking it's all I can think about and I have to cut.  
  
I must.  
  
The soft flesh that sleeks over the arch of my bare foot.  
  
Such delicate skin:  
  
I ache for scarlet.  
  
Dripping blood and tendons snapping: flicking warm crimson droplets which stain the sky blue of the couch.  
  
The itch of drying blood.  
  
"Duo?"  
  
A soft voice startles me.  
  
"Are you OK?"  
  
Yeah, sure Quatre, I was just thinking how much better your sofa would look in red.  
  
"I'm fine."  
  
Just a moment of chaos in the calm.  
  
****************************************************  
  
I'm aware that `self-mutilation' is a vile phrase - I was just using it in the context of Duo's warped point of view.  
  
Only two, possibly three, more chapters to go. All reviews are very much appreciated - so keep them coming.  
  
Many thanks,  
  
Miseria. 


	10. c h a p t e r e i g h t

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l 

Chapter Eight. 

"Time has washed away, now I may wonder: how did it all slip by? I always thought we had forever. Future calls to me to take me away from things I don't wanna leave behind: like I'm slippin' away I can't hold on...." 

Singing in the shower. 

Why so happy? Well, I have a mission. A solo mission. 

On my own again: no-one to justify myself to, and no-one to judge me. 

Just me. 

( and Shinigami ) 

I used to be schizophrenic, but we're OK now. 

Not really funny, but I crack a smile anyway. 

Twenty minutes and I'm out of here. 

Gone. Vamoose. History. 

As I step out of the shower I catch the barest glimpse of myself in the huge steamed-up, full-length mirror, which graces most of a wall in this oversized bathroom. 

Just a blurred movement in the corner of my ever-watchful eyes. 

I lean over and clear the condensation off with my towel - slowly revealing my naked body in all its disgusting glory: 

Shiny, slick skin - thickly webbed by pale, parallel scars: a crosshatched map that charts my downward spiral. 

Jesus! There are so many of them. 

The first few times I couldn't bare to meet my reflections' wavering gaze - I mean, how fucked up do you have to be in order to take a blade to your own skin? 

The second shock came when I found healing cuts that I had no memory of... then, that too became the norm. 

It proves (if only to myself) that I'm not being melodramatic - I really am screwed up. 

And I've got the scars to show for it. 

But I can handle it. 

It's just a coping mechanism: something I do when things get a little too rough. 

Some people smoke, some do drugs - I cut myself. 

It helps to keep the demons away. 

Whatever works. 

Right? 

********************************************* 

Just the epilogue to go, so this is my last author's note: 

The lyrics that Duo sings are from Offspirings' "Crossroads", used for no reason other than that it's one of my favourite songs. 

Thank you to everyone who has reviewed so far, you guys are great. 

It's probably a little late for a dedication, but this was written for all those cutters out there - I hope this brings a little more understanding to this all-to-often miss-judged condition. 

Thank you again, 

Miseria. 


	11. e p i l o g u e

d o w n w a r d s p i r a l  
  
  
  
  
  
Epilogue.  
  
  
  
  
  
//Three months later... //  
  
"Die motherfucker!"  
  
I rule! I so fucking rule, man!  
  
I got them all - blasted the Oz scum away - mission accomplished: no problems.  
  
I come in for landing - a little too fast, but I fly like I live: close to the edge.  
  
It's only when I climb down from my Gundam with practised ease, and finally survey my surroundings that I realise how many of them there really were: mangled remains of Libras scatter the scorched landscape for miles.  
  
Shit! I don't remember there being that many: must be at least ten suits here. I feel the adrenaline slip away, as the full force of what I have done washes over me.  
  
( it was Shinigami )  
  
It's so quiet...  
  
Choking fumes rise steadily from what's left of the once hulking machines.  
  
The tang of spilt blood.  
  
Screams echo in the silence.  
  
My laughter sounds broken and shattered - but I'm unable to prevent it from bubbling up and rising to mix with the blood and toxic fumes: painting the air with pain and horror.  
  
( nobody worry, I'm just a little sick )  
  
And - God help me: but I can't stop it.  
  
I can't stop. 


End file.
